(Las Vegas, 6/17/68)

The Sheriff’s blocked off Fremont. The low-roller casinos flew flags at half-mast. A lackluster motorcade slogged through.

Dig: a memorial parade for Wayne Tedrow Senior.

Noon in Vegas, 109° and climbing. City fathers in cowboy hats and broil-inducing suits. The mayor’s last-second brainstorm. Senior was a heavyweight. Let’s dispense respect.

The car procession crawled. The standing spectators sizzled and gaped, sun-stupefied. Some kitchen workers waved placards and booed. Wayne Senior ran their union and fucked them over with management side deals.

The LVPD sent an honor guard. Wayne stood on a platform with Buddy Fritsch and Bob Gilstrap. Buddy was nervous. He radiated I need a drink. He probably saw Wayne Senior’s body.

Snail trail-the cars moved bumper-lock slow. Tourists capered and waved chip cups and beers. Negro protestors lugged anti-cop signs. A subgroup taunted Wayne. He heard muffled chants of “Honky killer!”

Sonny Liston bopped up to the platform. A dumb shit yelled, “Ali kicked your ass!” Sonny flipped him off. It got some laughs. Sonny sucked on a half-pint of Everclear. Buddy and Bob shied away from him. Wayne stepped off the platform.

Sonny said, “Did you kill him?”

Wayne said, “Yes.”

Sonny said, “Good. He was a racist motherfucker. You a racist motherfucker, but you only kill niggers who deserve it.”

That stupe yelled, “Ali kicked your ass!” again. Sonny chucked his jug at him and chased him. The crowd geared up for some fun. A Caddy ragtop inched by. The backseat was packed with showgirls. They smiled, waved and caught themselves-oops, we’re supposed to look sad.

Wayne saw Carlos Marcello across the street. They exchanged smiles and waves. Wayne got jostled. The crowd swelled and pushed him into the platform. They looked pissed. Wayne saw why: Dwight Holly was shoving through with his badge out.

Wayne stepped over to a shady spot. It was semi-private. Dwight found him fast.

“Condolences for your father, but I’d have killed him, too, if I were you.”

“I appreciate the comment, but I’d like to cut the topic off there.”

“We go back, son. You shouldn’t mind some ribbing.”

“We share a history. You’d call it affectionate, I wouldn’t.”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “Tell me it’s chilled.”

“You mean tell Mr. Hoover.”

Dwight rolled his eyes. “Don’t nitpick me, Wayne. Tell me it’s chilled and I’ll pass the message along.”

“It’s chilled, Dwight. Tell me we’re chilled on Memphis and we’ll call it even.”

Dwight stepped in close. “We’ve got a little seepage there. I’ll tell you about it in a second, but you’ve got to hear the lecture first.”

Wayne weaved a tad. A protestor spotted him and did the clenched-fist thing. Dwight pulled him behind the platform.

“You’re juiced now. You’re in with Uncle Carlos and you may get in with Hughes. I’d be a piss-poor friend if I didn’t tell you to be careful.”

Wayne stepped in close. “ ‘Friend’? You fucking coerced me into Memphis.”

Dwight stepped closer. He bumped Wayne into a lightpost and pinned him there.

“Wendell Durfee came with a price, son. And don’t tell me that you didn’t want the job on some level.”

Wayne pushed Dwight back. Easy hands, don’t rile him. Dwight made nice and brushed off Wayne’s coat.

“Give me an update on Carlos. Something to keep the old poof happy.”

“It’s stale news. The Boys want to sell Hughes the rest of their hotels and keep their skim guys inside. Hughes wants a peaceful town. Someone has to fill Ward Littell’s shoes, and it’s me.”

“Senior was a racist! Junior is a killer!”-Wayne heard faint shouts.

“The envelope for Dick Nixon. Tell me about that.”

“How did you-”

“We’ve got his pad in Key Biscayne bugged. Nixon mentioned it to Bebe Rebozo.”

Wind blew bunting off the platform. The Senior/Junior chant grew.

“The Boys want to build some casinos in Central America or the Caribbean, and they want things slowed down at Justice. They’d like a pardon for Jimmy Hoffa by ‘71. They think Nixon will win the election and be amenable.”

Dwight nodded. “I’ll buy that, for now.”

“The ‘seepage’? Memphis? You were going to-”

“I’m trying to run down some hate-mail subscribers. I’d like to get a look at your father’s lists.”

Wayne shook his head. ‘Wo. I’m out of the hate business. Talk to Fred Hiltz.”

“Shit, Wayne. I’m not asking you for the world, I’m just asking for-”

“Seepage? Memphis? Come on, don’t string me out on that.”

Dwight reached for a cigarette. The pack was empty. He threw it into the crowd.

“The St. Louis SAC called me this morning. There’s talk coming out of the Grapevine Tavern.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“It’s a shitkicker joint. One of Jimmy Ray’s brothers owns a piece. I had it bugged. A bullshit rumor was circulating there, and Jimmy bought into it. A fifty-grand bounty on King. Otash lured Ray in off the rumor and worked him behind it.”

“Senior/racist, Junior/killer, Senior/rac-”

“Keep going. I didn’t work that part of the job.”

“Some rednecks found the bug. They figured out that it was FBI-issue, and now there’s talk that the hit was Bureau-adjunct.”

Wayne prickled. “Talk’s talk, Dwight. Rumors are rumors.”

“Yeah, but it’s a little too close to Jimmy and these crazy stories he’s telling.”

“Which means?”

“Which means it might or might not go away, and if it doesn’t, we’ll have to do something about it.”

“ ‘We’ or you?”

Dwight grabbed his necktie. “Us, son. Wendell Durfee wasn’t for free.”

The IV drip had run out. The nurse was on the couch, sleeping. Janice fell asleep watching TV.

Wayne checked her pulse. It ran weak-normal. The p.m. news was on, with the sound low. A reporter did the standard King/Bobby number and segued to Nixon and Humphrey.

Upcoming conventions: Miami and Chicago. Two first-ballot nods assured. Potential protests at both convention sites. The Nixon-Humphrey poll status-now a dead heat.

Wayne watched Tricky Dick and Hearty Hubert strut and mug. He had Farlan Brown on tap. The Grapevine news torqued him. “Talk” and “Rumors” might mean witness trouble. Dwight wanted to see Wayne Senior’s mail lists. They were stashed in a bunker outside Vegas. Senior always called it his “Hate Hut.” A shitload of hate lit was stored there.

Janice stirred and winced. Wayne rigged a fresh IV bag. Nixon and Humphrey talked blahblah. Janice opened her eyes.

Wayne said, “Hi.”

Janice pointed to the TV. “They’re homely men. If I’m alive, I won’t know who to vote for.”

Wayne smiled. “You’ve always erred on the side of looks.”

“Yes. Which explains my bad luck with men.”

The bag started draining. The juice hit the tube. Wayne flicked the dial and regulated the flow. Janice shuddered. The juice hit her arm and fed her a slight burst of color.

She said, “Buddy Fritsch called today.”

“And?”

“And he’s scared. He said there’ve been some rumors.”

Wayne turned the TV off. “About that night?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And Buddy said some neighbors have been talking. They said they saw a man and woman outside the house.”

Wayne took her hands. “We’re covered. You know who I know, and you know how these things get taken care of.”

Janice shook her head and pulled her hands free. She got some strength up. The bed slid. Wayne clamped her arm to keep the needle in.

“I’ll be gone soon, but I don’t want people to know that we did it.”

“Sweetheart…”

“We shouldn’t have done it. It was hateful and vindictive. It was wrong.”

Wayne flicked the dial. The bag puckered and fed the tube. Janice went out in an instant.